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by Paul Lynch
On a dark, wet evening in Dublin, scientist and mother-of-four Eilish Stack answers her front door to find two officers from Ireland's newly formed secret police on her step. They have arrived to interrogate her husband, a trade unionist.
Ireland is falling apart, caught in the grip of a government turning towards tyranny. As the life she knows and the ones she loves disappear before her eyes, Eilish must contend with the dystopian logic of her new, unraveling country. How far will she go to save her family? And what—or who—is she willing to leave behind?
Paul Lynch's 2023 Booker Prize–winning Prophet Song is a speedboat of a novel that hurtles the reader through ever-heightening waves toward a dark shore, a stark vision of total societal breakdown.
The narrative follows Eilish Stack, a microbiologist living in suburban Dublin with her husband, Larry, the deputy general secretary of the Irish teachers' union, and their four children, the oldest a teenager and the youngest an unexpected, late-in-life baby. Her father, showing early signs of dementia, lives nearby. Eilish's mind perpetually buzzes with the kinds of thoughts about work and kids and home that sustain a privileged, ordinary life held together by the almost invisible braces of a functioning civil society.
Lynch sets this world to spinning when the police arrive at the family home, looking for Larry. The authoritarian ruling party has introduced emergency measures in response to an unstated crisis. The government suddenly appears darkly inscrutable as it sidesteps the usual legal protocols and arrests dissenters, trade unionists—really, it quickly becomes clear, any person who is declared to be a domestic threat. This includes Larry, who after a late-night interrogation is later summarily arrested at a union march without even a nod to his civil rights, which so recently had felt like bedrock to the Irish state. The family's all-too-fragile edifice collapses as the city transforms around them.
Lynch understands that totalitarianism doesn't simply storm into power; all too often it creeps in, exploiting minor, seemingly harmless administrative policies and incrementally asphyxiating democratic mores, leaving only the specter of terror as the ruling party, their ambitions unmasked, declares that those who are not with us are against us. As the novel proceeds, readers follow Eilish through a cold Kafkaesque nightmare in which family members can get no information about missing relatives, and residents of the city can only seek the false safety of silence, as dissent is dangerous. Those who enter the prisons and military hospitals do not return, and those who disappear leave no trace.
Curiously, as Eilish's world collapses, her rational mind begins to work against her. She cannot grasp the gravity of the situation, it seems. How can she make sense of what she experiences, when it falls so far beyond the pale of what she had dreamed possible in a democratic country such as Ireland? Her only sanctuary, then, is denial. She lies to her children about the situation to protect them and explains away the evidence of danger shadowing over her. Stubbornly, she resists help from her sister, across the ocean in Toronto, who reminds her that "History is a silent record of people who did not know when to leave."
Some readers might find Lynch's break from standard formatting and punctuation unsettling—there are no quotation marks or paragraph breaks, so that each section of a chapter consists of long, solid blocks of text. The overall impact of these stylistic choices, however, echoes the intense, immersive description of the novel's world, the creeping dread of no exit and the clutching fear that gains momentum with the book's pace as the nightmare gallops towards its perhaps inevitable end.
Offering some solace to the reader, Lynch's prose can be both unusual and beautiful: "once the lie is known it will remain outgrown from the mouth like some dead-tonguing poisonous flower."
Prophet Song plays into a deep fear—that civilization will fall into conflict and ruin, that fascism will invade from democracy's back door, opening the way for history's never-ending line of bullies and thieves. But, in the end, Lynch reminds us that a democracy's demise may also occur through the stealthy creep of far subtler agents, whether the slow strangulation of individually innocuous statutes or our stubborn insistence that an old reality remains.
Book reviewed by Danielle McClellan
In Paul Lynch's novel Prophet Song, the enactment of an Emergency Powers Act sets in motion a sequence of destabilizing events that will eventually lead to societal dissolution and civil war. The Act provides the legal justification for an authoritarian government, through its newly formed secret police force and military, to bypass normal protections and institute human rights violations against its own citizens under the guise of national security measures. Throughout the novel, characters question how it is possible that an elected government in a democratic country such as Ireland can ignore the constitution in hammering its crushing new restrictions into place.
American readers may also find themselves reflecting on how realistic such a nightmarish vision might be in the United States. What exactly are emergency powers, and how are they activated? How are governments meant to utilize these powers? Would it ever be possible in America for a ruling party to misuse this tool to supersede regular privacy and protection laws and suppress the rights of its own citizens?
In fact, most countries have some version of an emergency powers act that allows a government, in certain circumstances, to take swift actions that would not normally be permitted in order to protect its citizens. In the United States, the National Emergencies Act is brought into play whenever a president declares a state of emergency during a crisis such as a natural disaster, civil unrest, armed conflict, medical pandemic or epidemic or other biosecurity risk. According to the Brennan Center for Justice, "The purpose is simple: to temporarily enhance executive power during unexpected crises that are moving too fast for Congress to respond."
The value is clear. Under normal circumstances, creating new laws in the United States involves quite a bit of time and debate within the various branches of government in order to adhere to the constitution's strict guidelines. However, according to the Civil Liberties Union for Europe, in an emergency, "democratic checks and balances can hamper a government when they need to act quickly. The process for debating new laws can take weeks if not months, which could slow decisive, life-saving action."
In the US, the governmental use of emergency powers can be traced back to legislation introduced in 1775 by the Continental Congress. The first president to declare a national emergency was Abraham Lincoln during the Civil War. Until the First World War, American presidents utilized such authority purely at their own discretion. Between World War I and 1976, Congress asserted more oversight over emergency laws, but eventually they grew into a convoluted maze of 470 often contradictory laws and statutes. So, in 1976, the National Emergencies Act (NEA) was enacted. It superseded all earlier laws in establishing clear rules governing federal responses to national emergencies. President Ford signed the new Act into law, though he believed it was unconstitutional for the new law to give Congress the power to terminate an emergency without presidential consent. Indeed, this aspect of the Act was later amended, and now Congress can only end emergency declarations through joint resolutions, which require the president's signature.
Other Americans have warned about the law's potential for abuse. Currently, in the United States, there are 123 exceptional powers that become available to a president if he or she declares a national emergency. According to the Brennan Center for Justice, "Many are measured and sensible, but others seem like the stuff of authoritarian regimes: giving the president the power to take over domestic communications, seize Americans' bank accounts and deploy U.S. troops to any foreign country. Given how broad these powers are, it is critical to have adequate safeguards in place to prevent abuse."
Unfortunately, the National Emergencies Act, in its current form, lacks some of those protections. As the Brennan Center notes, "It allows the president to declare emergencies with nothing more than a signature on an executive order, and presidents can renew those emergencies every year ad infinitum." And while it is true that Congress can still take steps to end a state of emergency, "it effectively needs a veto-proof majority to do so." This has in recent years led to worry about unchecked presidential power.
Perhaps, the dystopic vision of Lynch's novel—the collapse of a once stable democracy—is not as far-fetched as we Americans would like to believe. The president's ability to quickly trigger the use of emergency powers can be crucial in a crisis, but there are also risks. As a 2019 New York Times editorial warns: "National emergencies can threaten the constitutional balance even under democratically minded presidents like Abraham Lincoln and Franklin Roosevelt. But they can be fatal under would-be autocrats, for they provide a seemingly legitimate (and often popular) justification for concentrating power and eviscerating rights."
by Lynda Cohen Loigman
On the cusp of turning eighty, newly retired pharmacist Augusta Stern is adrift. When she relocates to Rallentando Springs―an active senior community in southern Florida―she unexpectedly crosses paths with Irving Rivkin, the delivery boy from her father's old pharmacy―and the man who broke her heart sixty years earlier.
As a teenager growing up in 1920s Brooklyn, Augusta's role model was her father, Solomon Stern, the trusted owner of the local pharmacy and the neighborhood expert on every ailment. But when Augusta's mother dies and Great Aunt Esther moves in, Augusta can't help but be drawn to Esther's curious methods. As a healer herself, Esther offers Solomon's customers her own advice―unconventional remedies ranging from homemade chicken soup to a mysterious array of powders and potions.
As Augusta prepares for pharmacy college, she is torn between loyalty to her father and fascination with her great aunt, all while navigating a budding but complicated relationship with Irving. Desperate for clarity, she impulsively uses Esther's most potent elixir with disastrous consequences. Disillusioned and alone, Augusta vows to reject Esther's enchantments forever.
Sixty years later, confronted with Irving, Augusta is still haunted by the mistakes of her past. What happened all those years ago and how did her plan go so spectacularly wrong? Did Irving ever truly love her or was he simply playing a part? And can Augusta reclaim the magic of her youth before it's too late?
Lynda Cohen Loigman's delightful novel The Love Elixir of Augusta Stern opens in 1987. The titular heroine finds her life suddenly turned upside down: her current employer has "encouraged" her to retire (a prospect she's always dreaded), and her niece has arranged for her to move from her Brooklyn apartment into an upscale senior living community in Florida. To make matters worse, on her first morning at the facility she runs into Irving Rivkin, a man from her distant past — and the last person on Earth Augusta wants to see.
The narrative then shifts back to 1922; 15-year-old Augusta is working in her recently widowed father's pharmacy, intent on one day becoming a pharmacist herself. Her great-aunt Esther has moved into their small apartment to help look after Augusta and her older sister. It soon becomes apparent that Esther is a healer in her own right, offering powders and potions to those who can't be helped by modern medicine. Augusta becomes determined to learn all she can from both her father and her aunt, believing each type of treatment has its benefits. Irving is hired as her father's delivery boy, and the two teenagers develop a close friendship.
The timelines unfold in alternating chapters, as the relationship between Augusta and Irving unfolds in both the past and present. Each story has its highlight. The sections set in the 1920s are superb historical fiction, and the author constructs the era beautifully:
"Her favorite sound was the bell on the door that chimed whenever a customer entered. Not only did she take her very first steps in the aisle between the Listerine and the St. Joseph's Worm Syrup, but when…she slipped and fell headfirst into the display of McKesson & Robbins Cold and Grippe Tablets, family lore had it that the first word she spoke was not Mama, Papa or boo-boo, but aspirin."
This part also contains a bit of magical whimsy as Augusta spies on Aunt Esther, discovering that there's a little more to the latter's healing ability than simply mixing the right herbs.
Loigman displays a remarkable gift for dialogue in the book's 1987 chapters. The banter between Augusta and Irving in particular is both realistic and very funny; these scenes wouldn't be out of place in a 1980s sitcom like The Golden Girls:
"For god's sake, Irving, you scared me half to death!"
"You were worried about me," he said, obviously pleased with the idea.
"Everyone was worried," she said. "Eighty-year-old men shouldn't play tennis."
"I'm eighty-two."
"I know that, Irving. I was making a point. But I'm glad that you still remember your age. I guess you didn't have a stroke after all."
Other scenes here, beyond the dialogue, are equally hilarious (there's one in particular involving a Jello mold that had me giggling out loud).
The book does, unfortunately, have some major flaws. Loigman's three main characters are exquisitely drawn, but her skill here doesn't extend to the others and most lack depth. The plot, too, is completely predictable; the author offers so many hints about what exactly happened between Augusta and Irving that by the time we hit that point in the story the revelation has lost all impact. And finally, both storylines rely heavily on coincidence; I can generally forgive one or two chance meetings over the course of a novel — they certainly do happen from time to time — but there are so many here that it strains credulity.
If I were looking at the book's shortcomings alone I'd probably rate it three stars. When all's said and done, though, The Love Elixir of Augusta Stern is a lovely little confection of a novel, which boosts it up to a four. There's not a lot to think about, no heavy themes to contemplate, but sometimes that's a good thing. It's cozy; it offers a simple, good-natured, feel-good escape, and for some it will be the perfect respite for a complicated time. I highly recommend it, especially to audiences who enjoy novels about second chances and those looking for a bit of light magic and romance.
Book reviewed by Kim Kovacs
In Lynda Cohen Loigman's novel The Love Elixir of Augusta Stern, the title character works in her father's pharmacy and aspires to become a pharmacist herself.
Both the pharmacy and the role of the pharmacist have changed dramatically in the United States over the centuries. Pharmacies were referred to as apothecaries back in the day, while those who ran them were known as apothecaries, druggists, or chemists. There was no standard for medical care, and most remedies were based on herbs and other compounds found in nature. Chemists were responsible for creating, prescribing, and administering all sorts of liquids, powders, creams, and lotions, often with no more proof of their concoctions' efficacy than hearsay and a gut feeling that a certain combination would work. Knowledge was passed on through an apprenticeship, whereby a fledgling chemist spent years studying with an established one to learn the trade.
The haphazard nature of the business began to change early in the 19th century. In 1820 a group of physicians concerned about the poor quality of medicine banded together to form the United States Pharmacopeia (USP). The group published the first national guidelines for medicines and medical preparations. Even today, the USP is one of the most widely respected standards organizations in the world. In addition, the first pharmacy school in the country, the Philadelphia College of Pharmacy, opened in 1821. Its graduates began referring to themselves as "pharmaceutists," which evolved into the term we use for these professionals today.
It's certain there were women chemists in the early days of the trade, although most have been lost to history. Elizabeth Gooking Greenleaf is widely thought to have opened the first apothecary in the Colonies, in Boston in 1727 (and she bore 12 children to boot). Another well-known female pharmacist was Elizabeth Marshall, who inherited her grandfather's Philadelphia practice in 1804. Women in the field were undoubtedly rare, though, and it wasn't until 1863 that Mary Jacobi became the first woman to obtain a pharmacy degree.
The first colleges offered a two-year Graduate in Pharmacy degree (Ph.G.), which could become a Ph.C. — Pharmaceutical Chemist — with an additional year of study. In the 1940s, the four-year Bachelor of Science in Pharmacy (B.S.Pharm.) became more common. It wasn't until 1997 that the Doctor of Pharmacy (Pharm.D.), requiring six years of study, became the only accredited pharmacy degree.
Until 1951 pharmacists were almost the equivalent of doctors and could prescribe and dispense any non-narcotic medication. The Durham-Humphrey Amendment to the Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act separated drugs into those that could be safely dispensed without a prescription (i.e., over-the-counter) and those that couldn't (prescription only). The amendment also specified that doctors alone could prescribe certain medications; pharmacists could only fulfill the doctor's scrip. By the 1980s, momentum was shifting back to giving pharmacists more leeway, and the 2003 Medicare Prescription Drug Improvement and Modernization Act not only restored their ability to discuss all medications with their customers but allowed them to administer vaccines as well.
Today, a pharmacist is considered a highly skilled medical professional, and to become a licensed pharmacist takes many years. An aspiring candidate has to:
Pharmacists make, on average, around $119k per year (2022) — although men in the field make considerably more than women ($130k vs. $111k, respectively). There are currently about 346k individuals employed as pharmacists (about 60% of whom are women) with the average age just over 40. Approximately 14k people obtain a Pharm.D. each year, but a 2020 report from the American Journal of Pharmaceutical Education states that the number of graduates will exceed the number of job openings through at least 2030.
18th-century apothecary mixing ingredients in The Book of Trades or Library of Useful Arts (1807) published by J. Johnson
by Garth Greenwell
A poet's life is turned inside out by a sudden, wrenching pain. The pain brings him to his knees, and eventually to the ICU. Confined to bed, plunged into the dysfunctional American healthcare system, he struggles to understand what is happening to his body, as someone who has lived for many years in his mind.
This is a searching, sweeping novel set at the furthest edges of human experience, where the forces that give life value―art, memory, poetry, music, care―are thrown into sharp relief. Time expands and contracts. Sudden intimacies bloom. Small Rain surges beyond the hospital to encompass a radiant vision of human life: our shared vulnerability, the limits and possibilities of sympathy, the ideal of art and the fragile dream of America. Above all, this is a love story of the most unexpected kind.
At the beginning of Garth Greenwell's novel Small Rain, the protagonist, an unnamed poet in his early forties, is stricken with acute abdominal pain. The COVID pandemic is raging and he's reluctant to visit the hospital, but after suffering at home for a few days, he finally capitulates to his alarmed partner and ends up in the ER, where doctors discover that he has a life-threatening aortic tear.
The rest of the novel is mostly set in the ICU, where the narrator is tethered to his hospital bed with IV lines and sensors, but where his mind roams freely and widely. Greenwell is a master at creating intimacy; the poet seems to speak directly to the reader, and his narrative voice is compelling: sometimes self-critical and dismissive of his perceptions, but also empathic and reflective.
"I sat in a chair while she took my blood pressure and temperature….I disliked her, I realized, I felt an antipathy she hadn't earned. Probably she was exhausted; I can't imagine it, day after day seeing people in pain, at their worst moments, over years; how could you protect yourself from that, I wondered, there was some human regard I wanted from her that I had no right to demand."
The protagonist in Small Rain bears a close resemblance to Greenwell himself: a writer raised in Kentucky and living in Iowa City with his partner. Greenwell's previous novels, What Belongs to You and Cleanness, shared a similar first-person voice, but the landscapes of the novels are very different. Both earlier novels are set in Sofia, Bulgaria and explore queer sexuality and desire. In Small Rain, the subject of illness and its attendant concerns appear alongside the protagonist's quiet, domestic life in Iowa.
The poet also meditates on art and beauty; in one particularly significant section, he reflects on his attempt to introduce his literature students to a favorite poem by American poet George Oppen (see Beyond the Book), about a sparrow: "I wanted to tell them, this record of a mind's noticing, a moment of particularizing attention. From a flock of sparrows this sparrow, in a forest." The sparrow of Oppen's poem is both individual and representative of other sparrows—perhaps all sparrows—throughout time. This is a key to the novel's larger ideas about art: the poet thinks about the core challenges of creating art, wanting to be "faithful to the concrete, particular thing," but "wanting too to pull away from the concrete, to make it representative."
It's also a key to the novel's own form, which continually adjusts its narrative lens from the close-up and personal to the wide-angled and universal. As the poet is experiencing his own unique medical crisis, the outside world faces an unprecedented pandemic; both the individual and the larger world suffer from anxiety about the uncertain future. The novel's title, too, reminds us how connected this one man and his experience is to all of humankind. "Small rain" is taken from the medieval poem "Westyrn Winds":
Western wind, when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
The lament of this poem reminds us that people throughout history, like Greenwell's narrator, have turned to poetry to help articulate the depth of their desire and pain, and that the yearning for home and family is universal.
As the poet in the novel processes his time in the hospital—the vague and inconclusive tests; the cheerful but evasive jargon of doctors and nurses; the days that blur into one another; the sharp and constant fear—his appetites for the world are sharpened. He eats a potato chip, and it is like eating one for the first time. He drinks a coffee, and coffee has never tasted better. As he realizes how close he has come to death, his life becomes very sweet. In his newly weakened state, he holds the world close. This is Greenwell's gift: to ask the reader how one can live a life with true appreciation, paying close attention to the full gamut of sorrow and joy in the world.
Book reviewed by Danielle McClellan
In Garth Greenwell's novel Small Rain, the unnamed protagonist—facing a difficult and uncertain medical diagnosis—finds solace in a poem by the poet George Oppen. The poem is only a few simple lines, but the protagonist marvels at how much unfolds when one sits with Oppen's work and lets it quietly speak. "I loved how, among the abstraction, his images became luminous, shards of the real, non-abstract world, occasions for wonder," he thinks.
Even for poetry lovers, the name George Oppen may be unfamiliar. However, he is a fascinating and significant figure in twentieth century American poetry.
Born in 1908 to an affluent New York family, Oppen lost his mother to suicide when he was only four years old. His father soon remarried, but he had a difficult relationship with his stepmother, and his childhood spent in New York and San Francisco was not a happy one. After tumultuous teenage years, Oppen met his wife, Mary Colby, at college in Oregon. The two eventually began a long road trip across the country, where they worked any jobs that they could find, and Oppen wrote poetry.
When George and Mary reached New York, he became involved with a group of poets creating a new movement they called Objectivism. The idea was to emphasize "simplicity and clarity over formal structure and rhyme." Oppen came into a small inheritance when he turned twenty-one, and together with the poet Louis Zukofsky, he started a short-lived poetry magazine that published work by William Carlos Williams and Ezra Pound, among others. Later, he would be a cofounder of the Objectivist Press, which would publish numerous books of poetry, including Oppen's own first book, Discrete Series, with a preface by Ezra Pound.
During the Great Depression, the Oppens became increasingly interested in progressive politics and activism. George would stop writing poetry entirely, finding it inadequate to address the demands of the times; in his essay "The Mind's Own Place," he argues that poetry is not a form of political action. "There are situations which cannot honorably be met by art, and surely no one need fiddle precisely at the moment that the house next door is burning," he wrote. He began working for the American Communist Party in various roles, including serving as an election campaign manager in 1936. However, by 1942, the Oppens were disillusioned with the Party, and George quit his job to join the military, believing that the World War II fight against fascism was paramount. After being badly wounded in battle, he was awarded a Purple Heart.
Soon after returning to New York after the war, George and Mary were targeted by the House of Un-American Activities Committee led by Senator Joseph McCarthy. They fled to Mexico, where they lived for most of the next decade. When they returned to New York in the late 1950s, Oppen began writing poetry again. He published several more books of poetry, and was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1969 for Of Being Numerous, his most critically acclaimed collection; the title poem is "widely considered his masterpiece" and "examines questions of singularity within a diverse and crowded world."
Oppen's poetry is spare and precise, with "terse, powerful lines and strong, focused syntax." Like other Objectivist poets, he "emphasized the poem as an object in itself, not as a vehicle of meaning or association." The poet James Longenbach wrote that "Oppen's respect for the art of making, no matter how small, is at every moment palpable, and it infuses his work with sweetness that makes difficulty feel like life's reward."
George and Mary moved back to San Francisco in the late 1960s. His final work, Primitive, was completed with Mary's help in 1978, after he became stricken with Alzheimer's disease; Mary also published an autobiography, Meaning a Life, that year.
by Eve J. Chung
Daughters are the Ang family's curse.
In 1948, civil war ravages the Chinese countryside, but in rural Shandong, the wealthy, landowning Angs are more concerned with their lack of an heir. Hai is the eldest of four girls and spends her days looking after her sisters. Headstrong Di, who is just a year younger, learns to hide in plain sight, and their mother—abused by the family for failing to birth a boy—finds her own small acts of rebellion in the kitchen. As the Communist army closes in on their town, the rest of the prosperous household flees, leaving behind the girls and their mother because they view them as useless mouths to feed.
Without an Ang male to punish, the land-seizing cadres choose Hai, as the eldest child, to stand trial for her family's crimes. She barely survives their brutality. Realizing the worst is yet to come, the women plan their escape. Starving and penniless but resourceful, they forge travel permits and embark on a thousand-mile journey to confront the family that abandoned them.
From the countryside to the bustling city of Qingdao, and onward to British Hong Kong and eventually Taiwan, they witness the changing tide of a nation and the plight of multitudes caught in the wake of revolution. But with the loss of their home and the life they've known also comes new freedom—to take hold of their fate, to shake free of the bonds of their gender, and to claim their own story.
Told in assured, evocative prose, with impeccably drawn characters, Daughters of Shandong is a hopeful, powerful story about the resilience of women in war; the enduring love between mothers, daughters, and sisters; and the sacrifices made to lift up future generations.
Daughters of Shandong is the debut novel of Eve J. Chung, a human rights lawyer living in New York. Overall, First Impressions readers loved the book, awarding it an outstanding average rating of 4.8 out of 5 stars.
What Daughters of Shandong is about:
This book is a work of fiction, but it's based on the real life of the author's grandmother. A mother and three daughters are left behind when the more powerful members of their Nationalist family flee to escape Communists during the revolution. The story is told from the perspective of the oldest daughter, Li Hai, and the author does an astonishing job of capturing the thoughts of an adolescent girl dealing with both inconceivable trauma and everyday concerns (Kathleen L). This is also a character study of the women, both young and old, their strengths, the cultural rules accepted by the mother, and the awareness of the daughters that these rules are not fair (Susan W).
Readers were immediately swept up in the story's fast pace and absorbing details.
This novel was one which I could not stop thinking about. When I wasn't reading it, I couldn't wait to return to the story. There were some difficult scenes throughout but reading about Hai and the treacherous journey from Shandong to Taiwan was ultimately gratifying and I rooted for these women through every step. I cannot recommend this novel enough! (Darlene B). A fast-paced historical fiction novel that keeps the reader turning pages until the end (Cindy B).
Many felt that the book was thoroughly enjoyable despite its difficult subject matter.
If a book taking place during a war can be called enjoyable, this is it. I say enjoyable based on the mother/daughter relationships, the three-dimensional characters and the rising above the circumstances, which almost makes the reader forget the horrors in favor of the power of the storyline (Marie M). Chung's writing is descriptive without being overly expansive. Daughters of Shandong was a real pleasure to read and I hope Chung continues to write (Laurie B).
Reviewers also thought that the novel's exploration of the treatment of girls and women was substantial and important.
As a Chinese daughter myself, I resonated deeply with Hai and many of the struggles she went through in trying to reconcile her identity with her culture…More than any other novel I've read in recent years (specifically ones written in contemporary times), this one does a great job exploring the internal battle that many of the women who grow up in restrictive cultures face (Lee L). From the story's emphasis on gender inequality, I learned about the damage that it has done to individuals and its harsh effects on society. I was moved by the relationships and the portrayal of the mother and her daughters in their relentless struggle to survive as their lives were continually torn apart (Patricia W).
In general, readers found Daughters of Shandong to be a fascinating and stunning work of historical fiction.
Daughters of Shandong is now on the top of my list of historical fiction novels. The author transports the reader into the eye of Chinese history and shows the incredible strength and fortitude of women who refused to be oppressed so that their daughters could rise above the hardships of cultural and political challenges and injustice (Melissa C). So many great details about the times and places, I could not put this book down! I look forward to reading other books by Eve J. Chung and want to share this story with my teenage granddaughter (Ruth H). Amidst the backdrop of resistance and resilience, Chung weaves a tale of hope and love that empowers this family to conquer insurmountable odds. Her storytelling skillfully explores the bonds of family and the strength that emerges from adversity, delivering a narrative that is both heart-rending and hopeful (Lani S).
Book reviewed by First Impressions Reviewers
Eve J. Chung's debut novel Daughters of Shandong focuses on the mother and daughters of a landowning family who flee China for Taiwan as a result of the Communist revolution in the late 1940s. Chung has spoken about how she was motivated to write the book by her maternal grandmother's experiences of that period of history.
However, what became a work of fiction started as a simple attempt to record her family's past. In a note to readers, Chung portrays the special relationship she formed with her grandmother from having lived with her in Taiwan as a child. While they were close, bonding over competitive billiards and period dramas, Chung knew little of her grandmother's history as a refugee. After her grandmother passed away in 2013, Chung decided to record details about her life with the help of her mother and other relatives, for the purpose of sharing them with her children. But realizing that there were simply too many unknowns, she ended up embarking on the much larger project of fictionalizing her grandmother's story.
In an interview with Sampan, Chung talks about how another thread that informed her writing of Daughters of Shandong was her work as a human rights lawyer, which has focused on gender equality. Writing about a fictional Chinese family in the 1940s and '50s gave her the opportunity to address the sexism and misogyny inherent in society at that time. The poor treatment of women and girls, who are often shown to be given less importance and value than their male counterparts, is a major theme of the novel.
"I hope it helps draw attention to the entrenched sexism that women face in many cultures around the world," she says. Mentioning that she has seen both changes and continued "challenges" in her generation regarding sexism in Chinese culture, Chung also stresses that her interest in gender equality is not specific to any one group of people but extends across time and place, and also alludes to the unique difficulties and issues that women refugees face: "All over the world, there is backlash against women's rights, which is chipping away at hard-earned progress for gender equality—this is true as well in the country that I live in, the United States...What saddens me most is that there are still many women and girls who are refugees and/or suffer as a result of armed conflict, just like my grandmother and her family."
In a recent article for Writer's Digest, Chung writes about choosing the cover art for her novel, which ended up being a painting by Wang Yidong, an artist from her grandmother's home province of Shandong. In conjunction with this, she comments on the inspiration behind the novel's title, explaining that while her grandmother's remains are buried in Taipei, her roots were an important part of her identity: "Among Chinese people, it is common to ask a person where their lao jia, their 'old home' is—the roots of their origin, which is not where they were born, but where their family is from."
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